


"Only you..."

by Likorys



Series: Geraskier week 2020 [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Jaskier the human and Geralt the immortal witcher, M/M, and talk about feelings, because they're best mates but also mates, neither Jaskier nor Geralt are good at it but they are trying, the reunion once more because I need those two idiots together, there be werewolves, to whih Geralt decied 'fuck no'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22804582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likorys/pseuds/Likorys
Summary: It's been a little while since the mountain and Geralt is doing fine and he absolutely planned to slip off that ravine. He did not expect to wake up in werewolves' den and definitely didn't want to meet Jaskier there, but destiny works in mysterious ways. They talk and try to make up.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636678
Comments: 13
Kudos: 239





	"Only you..."

Geralt’s not sure exactly what happened to land him here -- at the bottom of a ravine, unable to move, with a werewolf sniffing at him. He blames that one nick from the cockatrice he didn’t notice between all other wounds, poison muddling his brain slowly enough it managed to paralyze him before he realized it and could take something to lessen the effects.

He would be pissed at his own stupidity if he had the energy to spare, but all he can think if is _why_ he was so careless.

He hates the answer, because it’s just _Jaskier_ and he lost that on his own accord, so he can only feel guilt. Because Jaskier wouldn’t’ve let him move along before a bath or at least a rub-down with a wet cloth. He probably would’ve counted every bloody cut and noticed one still seeping with the toxin.

Or at least he would’ve noticed Geralt becoming poisoned and warned him so he wouldn’t’ve slid down a ravine, right into maws of a werewolf!

He would’ve sighed if he could, but poison barely leaves him able to breathe, no matter the witcher’s biology. It depends too much on potions in cases like this and he hates that it’s only been a few weeks and he’s life is already falling apart.

If not ending, because the werewolf is no longer sniffing at him, but instead pushing him onto his back before grabbing his legs between the sharp teeth and dragging him along.

Somehow, the worst part is that he can imagine every single word the bard would be spewing about the indignity, was he here.

But he’s not here, because Geralt threw him away and avoided him ever since and that’s what landed him in this whole fucking mess!

He’s almost glad when poison finally reaches his brain and darkness overtakes everything. At least he won’t have to _see_ and _feel_ what it’s like to become a snack to pack of werewolves.

* * *

There’s a fire burning through his veins. His heart trashes in his chest, too fast for human and deadly for a witcher. He trashes with it, hoping the movement will bring some relief but one of his legs is a dead weight and breathing hurts. The fire turns into an inferno and it sends his body into a shaking fit, brings bile into his throat, mouth already filling with blood.

He’s lost in the dark and dizzy and the world around is twisting as if he was drowning in molasses. His back’s frozen solid, the not-pain-just-wrongness a scalding, gaping maw as if a chunk of his body was missing.

It’s spreading out. 

Something’s holding him down and he can’t breathe, _he can’t breathe_ and his drowning in the fit and then his whole body _screams with pain_ , bright and sharp and stinging.

He’s no longer held down and he can spit out and _breathe_ , but the dark and the fog lost the anchor and he’s swaying in place.

Something pushes at his mouth and he tries to pull back, the taste oily as it sticks to his tongue, a whine at the back of the throat.

Then the fire in his veins comes back, caused by chill cloying them like ice and he shakes as he can smell _danger._

He’s trashing again, trying to move away, but he has no sense of direction and his head is split open with pain. His body aches, sharp lines of _wrong_ that leave him raw and open.

Then there is a stabbing pain that doesn’t end, just pulls and pulls and _pulls_ at the open wounds and he’s trashing again. Something crashes onto his chest and pain is blinding, he can’t breathe, it’s pulling again and his back is still a gaping wound, wide open and _necrotic_ but it can’t be, because the agony is thrumming ever so gently, like a heartbeat of a sickness given life.

The stabbing pain pulls along each wound, leaving an agonizingly throbbing beat with each of them.

It seems to never end.

Or maybe the dark swallows him before it does.

* * *

He wakes up in a room carved in stone, on a pile of furs and covered in clumsy bandages.

He wakes up sore and smelling familiar herbs in the air.

He wakes up whole and alive and in only a moderate amount of pain.

He _wakes up_ at all and his brain finally catches up to his body and promptly freezes again when he notices a-

 _Well._ A litter of werewolf puppies cuddled up to his legs, five of them, no larger than toddlers, all shuffling in their sleep and relaxed because _this is probably_ _their home_ , a thought that pierces through his muddled brain and sends shivers down his spine.

There’s also a girl sitting by the wall, her smell mixed with the puppies within a hand’s reach of her -- clawed fingers within a swipe’s reach of Geralt -- snoring with a box full of herbs and bandages and jars on her lap.

There is nothing else this could be, but _it doesn’t make sense_.

Werewolves don’t keep their food alive, they tear it to shreds, especially when they have a litter. It usually means born-wolves, not cursed ones, but it doesn’t mean much when he’s dealing with a whole _pack_. Born werewolves might be smarter, but the numbers bring out their instincts and it’s always dangerous.

Geralt slowly tries to move back, but some of the poison must still linger in his blood because his leg kicks out when he tries to twist it from under one little wolf and sends it tumbling to the stone floor.

His heart stops for a beat at the pitiful whine, but at least the pup doesn’t wake up, just curls up with tail between its paws and yawns before going back to sleep. It would be cute if the girl by the wall didn’t wake at the sounds and wasn’t looking at him now, her eyes a pale, watery grey but as sharp as the pointed teeth of her smile.

She says something and Geralt has to suppress a shudder because he has no idea what’s that language, but the sharp sounds can only mean he wolves have their own speech. And that means old pack, families and great numbers and he wonders again how in the world is he still alive (and tries not to think what were his first thoughts when he realized this and how many of them included Jaskier and guilt and regret).

He watches in silence as the girl wakes up the litter and chases the wolves off, giving a kick to a strangler sniffing at a bandage on Geralt’s hip, soaked with blood. She leans out of a window carved in a stone wall to shout something, then turns around to pick up the box and sits by Geralt’s side.

He grabs her wrist before she can reach a bandage on his side and for a moment he wonders if he doomed himself, but she just pulls her hand out of his grip with a bark of a laugh and reaches again.

He lets her reapply the salves and change the bandages, only because he recognizes the herbs and never smells nor feels nor sees anything suspicious. It still doesn’t make any sense _why_ she’d be helping him, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in its mouth, not when his life is at stake.

Even the most intelligent and sentient werewolves go feral to protect themselves. Even more so than mindless beasts, because they understand the threat of humans and know they need to keep hidden, whatever the price.

The girl sniffs suddenly, stands up and runs to the window, the box falling to the furs and the contents spilling out. Geralt tries to not look at needles and fire kit as the girl hollers in common:

“The mate woke!” which doesn’t really clear anything up. “Come, come!” she’s waving too, before turning back. Geralt tries to breathe in, but his ribs protest vehemently so he gives up. He’s nose is weaker than wolf’s either way, so he might as well just wait and see.

The girl comes back and gathers supplies that spilled into the box, then sets it by the makeshift bed before looking at Geralt sternly.

“Stay! No move. Broke.” she gestures at his legs and through the fog of poison, Geralt remembers the pain as he struck the landing at the bottom of a ravine, the pain when wolf grabbed for them. He has no idea what they gave him to stop him from feeling the break, or much pain at all, but when he tries to move his leg it’s spasms again, sliding off the furs and the splint made from branches and strips of fabric hits the ground.

So he’s trapped with a broken leg within a pack of werewolves. Just his luck.

Then he breathes in to respond and the familiar scent tickles at his nose – and it _doesn’t make sense_ , he _can’t be here_ and would never _come to him_ even if he was, but his mind is sluggish and doesn’t stop his body before his lips are moving in equally familiar:

“Jask-?” then his throat reminds him it’s dry as a desert and he has to stop a coughing fit from breaking his ribs.

His ears strain to hear shuffling nearby and then the curtain that works as the door moves and _yes_ , it is Jaskier coming in, although it takes Geralt a good moment to recognize him.

His hair is longer, curling behind his ears and brushing past his chin. Raw linen and leather are far cry from his usual bright silks and there is a new scar on his neck, so close to an artery it can’t be anything else than a butchered throat-slitting and Geralt forgets how to breathe for a moment.

His own death was fine. Irritating, but fine, he’s a witcher, it’s what might await him in every fight, but Jaskier-

 _He’s just a bard._ No in a demeaning way, because Jaskier is far from worthless (if anything he is _priceless_ ) but just a bard nonetheless, who should be pampered at the courts and sing into the night, not stand so awkwardly in the middle of werewolves’ den with a scar of a botched assassination on his skin!

He was supposed to be safe (Geralt was supposed to keep him safe and _protect him_ ). He kept avoiding him after that mountain because _away from Geralt_ he was supposed to be _better off!_

“You’re awake.” Jaskier looks him over, cringing at the clumsily stitched wound on his stomach, bandage gone and some green salve smelling of yarrow and grass half-applied along its jagged edge. The girl left at some point and they’re alone and Geralt doesn’t know what to do, he wants to stand and hug Jaskier, wants to apologize and beg him to never leave him again, but he can’t even stand and he still barely remembers how to breathe.

It’s the bard who breaks the silence.

“Fucking _cockatrice,_ I swear a third of your scars are just from them.” he sighs and then comes closer, sits by Geralt’s side and reaches for the box.

Geralt tenses when his fingers reach the wound, touch feather-light along the rough stitches. He notices how thick the thread is and feels grateful he was passed out for putting it in, even as a memory of searing pain and the _pulling_ and _weight on his chest_ makes him shiver.

Jaskier bites his lip and pulls his hand away and Geralt’s can’t lose him again, so he grabs as his wrist, but he has no idea what to say.

“Nest.” he settles on, because that’s safe and not at all what they should be talking about. “Freshly hatched, didn’t see it at first and took me by surprise.” he hesitates, because Jaskier’s quiet and it’s- unsettling, “Didn’t expect them to have their claws out already and let them get to my arms. Their poison is weaker, just paralyzes instead of necrotizing the nerves, but still good enough to slow you down when it’s a dozen of them.”

Jaskier laughs, the sound slightly broken and wet and _grating_ , his free hand slowly going to Geralt’s stomach. He trails along a short scar, fresh and red, right above his belly button.

“That’s new.” his tone is soft and there is something so melancholy and sad in it that Geralt’s heart _he’s not supposed to have_ breaks into pieces.

“A couple of fleders in a ransacked castle. It was a nest of archespores already, which nobody told me about. I had to-”

Jaskier laughs again, pulling his hand back and turning his head away.

“Don’t do this.” his voice is breaking and his shoulders shake and Geralt wants to pull his close, but he’s too afraid to move. “It’s more you told me about anything you did without me begging for hours first! I can’t-”

Geralt grinds his teeth because Jaskier is right and he knows what he should do, what he needs to say, but he’s so afraid it won’t change anything his tongue is numb.

“We’re safe here, in case it’s still the fever. They won’t – chase you away so you don’t need to batter be up so I’ll help you escape or – whatever you’re doing.” Jaskier’s blabbering as he busies himself with the box of supplies, taking out jars and bandages, but then leaving them on his lap and just moving them around, as if-

 _As if afraid_ to touch Geralt and that’s what he should feel, but Geralt still needs to fight down a shudder. Because even now Jaskier doesn’t smell of fear, only misery that smells like old tears and mildew.

“Safe?” he asks, because he’s still a witcher and they’re in the middle of a werewolves’ den, _did Jaskier somehow miss this part?_

Jaskier shuffles around and then his cheeks go red as he mumbles:

“I sorta saved a wolf from a griffin.”

Geralt’s heart stops for a moment and he forgets how to breathe again, before forcing out:

“A _werewolf_ pup. From a _griffin_.” his voice is low and tethering on the edge of disbelief and then he just _laughs_ , until his ribs protest again and he’s left gasping for air. “Only you-!”

Because this is so like Jaskier, always too kind to all the things alive and Geralt’s been both on the receiving end of the undeserved affections as well as the one who to protects bard from his poor judgment so many times it became a comfort. Because he knows it’s not stupidity, but kindness and sometimes he needs a reminder of the best in people, when all around he seems to find the worst.

“Glad you find my misery funny.” Jaskier’s even redder now, but he seems less tense, his moves less stilted as he picks up a jar of salve and moves to continue caring for Geralt’s wounds. It’s bittersweet, his touch familiar and his scent still melancholy. “At least I know you’re not gonna die on me if you’re as rude as ever!” he rolls his eyes, and there are pain and sadness in his voice still, but also undeniable fondness and Geralt lets himself hope that maybe there is still a second chance to be had.

Although the way Jaskier’s words ring true means he’s long gone past _second_ and _third_ chances and should be glad he might be given anything at all.

Something flickers through witcher's mind, the words of the girl before she left and he frowns.

“The girl-?” he starts hesitantly, because he still doesn’t know what to think about _the werewolves_ and hopes that maybe Jaskier will explain something and help.

But the bard shrugs.

“I think she’s called Bena and it’s all I’m actually sure of. Their common is so broken it’s ridiculous, they don’t even know _what stitches are_ cause they just slap herbs on a cut and _leave it_! But they know enough to communicate... usually?” he adds the last word when he notices Geralt’s frown. “What worried you?

Geralt wonders when did Jaskier learn to read him so well and forced his mouth to cooperate when he explains:

“She called for you. When I woke up.” his hands flex against the furs and he cannot look away from Jaskier. “But she said the _mate woke_ and we both know what werewolves mean by that.” he adds slowly and sighs when bard fingers freeze, half-way done with replacing a bandage around his stomach.

There is silence for a long while, Jaskier pointedly looking away and picking at loose threads, before finally collapsing into himself as he admits:

“I’ve been here for a month. When I landed here I must’ve still smelled like you, cause when _you_ got here all they would call you was ‘mate’ and point at me, and bring my things here as if it was obvious we’d-! So rude, honestly.” he shrugs weakly and shakes his head, the blush coloring his ears now too. “Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor till you’re healed and then we can get out from here and forget all about-”

“Not wrong.” Geralt’s pretty sure his mind froze again and that’s why he let the words out, but it got Jaskier to look at him so he presses on. “They’re not wrong. About that.” he moves a hand between them and breathes in, slow and deep, some of the stitches pulling and the pain helps him clear his head a little. “I’ve been awful at it, but- that’s what we were. I thi- I hope.” he corrects himself, because he has no right to assume anything anymore.

Jaskier’s frozen in place, his breathing shallow and his eyes glassy like river iced over. His mouth moves silently, and Geralt feels a painful jab when remembers a river, a djinn, and careless insults.

He never actually took it back, did he? Fuck. _Another_ thing to apologize for, as if there wasn’t a mountain already.

He opens his mouth but Jaskier’s on him in moments, hands covering his mouth. He lands sitting on his thigh and Geralt groans when it pulls at a cut there.

“Sorry!” Jaskier moves to pulls away but Geralt grabs as his waist and jerks him back and they both topple down onto the furs, bard on top of him, jar falling to roll over the floor.

Geralt takes a selfish moment to just breath in, his nose tickled by Jaskiers hair as he exhales and then takes in his scent again, the wildflowers and oil and sweat, the leather and raw fabric new but no clashing.

He can barely find the echo of his own scent, but then werewolves have some of the keened noses, so he doesn’t doubt bard’s tale. At least he can hope that other monsters smart enough to scent a witcher on him would’ve kept away, when he was alone.

Trying to tell himself he didn’t fail spectacularly at protecting him, but then he notices just how close they are and Jaskier’s throat is right in front of his face.

“Who did this?” he whispers, his breath rolling over the scar that’s weeks old and he’s not sure if he’d prefer the answer to be a griffin or not.

Geralt’s hands itch to go and tear the monster that _marked Jaskier in such a way_ to shreds, but you can’t blame an animal for fighting for a meal. Humans on the other hand...

Jaskier is tense for a moment before he seems to settle down, though his sigh is more resignation that anything else as he lays his head on Geralt’s shoulder.

“I’ve got half a mind to lie and spin some grant tale, but-” he shrugs a little and his eyes close. “Soldiers.” his tone becomes colder, distant, and Geralt has to clutch at the furs to keep from doing- something. He doesn’t deserve to, and he needs to know the story as well. “They came as merchants to me, asking for your service and I send them to all hell. They decided it meant I recognized them for the _Nilfgaardian filth they are_ ,” Jaskier shudders and goes pale and Geralt’s breath hitches when there are fingers clutching as his arm. He forces his own hands to relax and then slowly covers Jaskier’s smaller one, fingers stroking his skin.

He tries not to think what Jaskier must’ve seen to react like that. He doesn’t know how to help him, they don’t teach _caring_ or _giving comfort_ at Kaer Morhen and no human would ever seek it from him-

Yet here is Jaskier, face now hidden in the crook of Geralt’s neck and fingers tight on his arm, _cuddling up_ to a witcher even with all of their history.

Guilt crashes over him again and hurts more than all the stitches that pull with Jaskier’s weight on top of him. He wraps his other arm around bard’s waist and slowly strokes his side, hoping it’ll work.

“Which _of course_ I did, no fabric merchant would be caught _dead_ in what they wore- _a-anyway_.” Jaskier clears his throat, his cheeks a little red again and Geralt lest out an amused huff. Only Jaskier would recognize them this way and only he would still decide to insult them. “They brought me here, tried to scare me with a griffin, but it wouldn’t show up. When beating me up didn’t work to magically materialize you, they cut my throat and send me down to be torn by wildlife. Or the griffin, if it showed up. I found it myself actually, hunting down what I _thought_ was a wolf puppy. I was dying already so I protected it – more just fell on top of it and almost got my spine cut in two for the trouble actually – then other wolves came, probably smelling all the blood, and saved me.”

Geralt’s holding him closer now, fingers no longer movies but biting into raw linen of Jaskier’s shirt as he clutches at him.

Griffins can be calm enough, but not when hunting for food. Werewolves go very territorial when there are young ones involved. The cut was so close to hitting home as well.

So many ways Jaskier could’ve died, could’ve been whisked away from him and he would’ve never even known it.

The cruel, thoughtless words at that mountain might’ve been the last thing he said to him and this time, déjà vu chokes him and twist his heart and _burns_.

“-please,” He's gasping and he has to keep Jaskier down because he tries to look at him, a worried sound at the back of bard’s throat. “Don’t go pissing off any other soldiers.” is what comes out of his mouth, because anything else still seems stuck in his chest like a lead weight, buried so deep for so long he can’t seem to find it again.

Jaskier slumps against him with a snort and his breath ghosts along Geralt’s neck, a shiver following it.

“I didn’t plan to! I just- I might’ve been drunk.” he mumbles, fingers trailing up Geralt’s bicep, stopping to trace a half-moon of teeth marks at his arm. “Just a little.” he adds and Geralt’s huffs again, earning himself a weak slap at his chest.

He lets out a hiss when it hits one of the ribs that almost got broken when the cockatrice tried to squeeze the life out of him.

Jaskier shifts, his scent tinged by discomfort as he pulls to move away. Geralt pushes him gently to the side, so he’s no longer on top of him, but still right by him, his arm still around bard’s waist.

“You need rest.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, but doesn’t move further. His head landed on Geralt’s arm and he’s clearly looking at all the stitched wounds.

Something connects in Geralt’s mind again.

“You said they don’t know what stitches are.” he brings up and smiles a little when Jaskier’s ears go red again.

It’s something he noticed soon after he bard decided to follow him. He’s very confident when it comes to his sexual exploits, just a tad less when it comes to his music and singing, but can glow red in shame at the silliest little things, like being caught sneaking fruit into Geralt’s pack when they were run out of a town again. It’s... endearing, and he really missed it.

“Couldn’t let you just bleed out!” Jaskier’s hissing as he jerks away and sits up, looking at Geralt and there is fury in his eyes, dark and shadowed like a maelstrom. “You didn’t even clean it properly, and I know you had the potions to do so, because I had to go get your bag and then rifle through the mess of broken glass to get whatever was still salvageable!” he hits at Geralt’s chest again.

Geralt doesn’t miss the way he keeps away from his stitches and ribs and that might just hurt more than anything else.

“All the while there was a wound on your back, _sizzling_ as it burnt through your flesh and _bubbling_ with puss, and a dozen others bleeding like a tap turned open, and I couldn’t remember i-if it was morning glory’s _pink_ or _red_ f-for the antidote!”

Another slap, and one more, and Jaskier’s arms start to shake.

“A-all that _after I had to feed you Black Blood_ just s-so you won’t end up as wolves’ diner, b-because it took five baths to get all the cockatrice guts off of you! T-to get you to smell like _you_ or whatever s-so the brainless furballs would think you were m-my _mate_ and strop sitting around and waiting to e-eat you!”

Geralt slowly sits up, biting his cheek to stop from groaning as his ribs and the stitches ache and pull.

“ Thank you.” he says gently, but Jaskier only shakes more and his head drops down and then Geralt can feel tears land on his leg. He doesn’t deserve to, but he reaches to pull Jaskier into a hug, pushing his head back to his neck and holding him, because it worked previously.

But Jaskier doesn’t calm down, he’s still talking but it’s gibberish now, broken sentences and words shopped by his stutter and sobbing. So Geralt holds him tighter and moves a hand to clumsily stroke his hair.

“I’m alive, Jaskier,” he says, gently, as if treating a spooked animal.

Gods, he hopes Roach will be fine at the stable he left her at. He paid for a week since cockatrice can be tricky to track down, but he doesn’t know how long it’s been.

Still, he can’t really think about anything but the bard breaking apart in his arms right now.

“I’m alive, you saved me. I’ll live through today and tomorrow and many days after that, all thanks to you. I’ll heal, Jaskier, you made sure of that,” he continues, repeating the same thing in as many ways as he can, because it works.

Jaskier’s sobbing slowly quiets down and he doesn’t shake as much, although his breathing is still uneven.

“Ha-hate you!” he slaps at Geralt’s arm but his hand more so just slides down it and lands on the fur. “Y-you left me! C-can’t just come back and m-make me feel like dying b-because you’re in d-danger!” he sniffles, but still huddles closer to Geralt, his forehead on his arm and tears dripping onto witcher’s skin, the air heavy with salt and mildew and _pain_. “I-I can’t go through this l-like that.” He whispers and goes silent for a moment.

Geralt tries to find all the apologies he tried to pretend he wasn’t planning since the moment he pushed him away, his hand still stroking Jaskier’s hair, but then the bard continues:

“I love you t-too much to just f-find you like that ever a-again. To s-see you dying and fear y-you’ll push me away a-as soon as you wake, e-even if I’d be i-in a middle of stitching y-you!” his voice sounds so broken something shatters inside Geralt as well, because there are shreds of memories burned into his brain, a pain in world full of black and the pull, pull, _pull_ at open wounds, the way he trashed to get away from the agony.

He holds him closer and bites down a pathetic whine, forcing himself to find the right words to say instead.

“I’ll always be a witcher. I can’t – stop that, just like you won’t stop singing.” he starts finally. “But I nee- I _want you_ with me.” he admits, and it hits like some sort of finality.

Because it is **true** , and he can’t go back from that. Jaskier wormed his way into his heart and he can’t seem to get him out. He needs him, maybe even loves him, as far as witcher can still love with all the mutations that take their humanity away.

He can’t go back from admitting just how much Jaskier means to him, and it’s a power he’s terrified to give _anyone_. Because he can only wait, only hope Jaskier will still want him.

_Hope that the bard so in love with the whole wide world still sees something, anything worthy of affection in him too, even if Geralt cannot fathom such a thing._

Jaskier rubs at his eyes and when he looks at Geralt they’re _so soft_ and so full of emotions he feels he might drown in them, and gladly takes a dive. Because Jaskier still smells of old tears and mildew and the sour notes of panic (but still not a hint of fear), but it’s ever so slowly fading into sweet notes of _affection_ and _love_ and his eyes are rimmed red and clear as glacier when he smiles, radiant like a firework.

“You’re _so shit_ at apologies it’s kinda amazing,” he says, pressing their foreheads together and Garealt leans into it, his ribs and stitches and pain all be damned, because claws of fear are still closed around his heart, his own pulse thundering in his ears. “I still appreciate you saying that. I know you don’t really do talks about this kind of thing-”

“Let me make it better. Be better.” Geralt stops him, because he can’t take gratitude from him right now. “Make up for- everything I did. Everything I fucked up.”

“That’s a lot.” Jaskier chuckles weakly, his eyes a little cross-eyes as he tries to look at Geralt’s.

Geralt hesitates, fingers reaching out and freezing by bard’s cheek, then says: “I’ve got eternity. Perks of being a witcher. Think it’ll be enough?”

Jaskier twitches, looking away and pulls back suddenly. It takes Geralt a moment to connect things again and then his heart’s no longer thundering in his chest, it’s still in horror because he might have all the time in the world, but Jaskier’s a human.

The scar on his neck seems to mock the witcher as his mind scrambles to count the weeks and months and years. How long ago did he meet Jaskier? How long did he waste away from him? How much is left – how much is he willing to give him, how much will he be able to?

Geralt can’t breathe and he needs a distraction, so he blurts out:

“Tie me down next time.”

Jaskier gives him a dubious look, but he’s still looking at him again, so he says more: “It’ll be safer if I’m delirious.”

“You put a needle straight through his finger, you know.” Jaskier muses, a small smile tight on his lips, but still there. He spreads his fingers in front of Geralt’s face and yes, there is a scrap of cloth smelling faintly of old blood on one of them. “I need those to play and spread tales of your glory, witcher! I fully expect some tender nursing... as soon as you can stand up, of course.” he cringes a little and Geralt can’t stand the spoiled smell of guilt on him.

He brings his hand to his face, easily pulling off a bit of cloth wrapped around the middle finger and leans in to kiss at a scabbed over puncture, then bending the finger to reach the one of the other wide. He prays to whatever gods still listen to him he didn’t damage any nerves or tendons, because he doesn’t want to deal with mages to find a way to heal it, but _he would_.

Hell, he’d probably swallow his pride and seek out Yennefer if she was their best option, _for Jaskier_.

Jaskier who’s sputtering now, but his cheeks are red and Geralt hides a smile in the palm of his hand, kissing the soft skin again, to his wrist and around a dark bruise in shape of fingers he can see there, just starting to fade.

He must’ve got a grab at him at some point, in the fever. He can still smell blood and echo of his potions, the Black Blood and the right antidote and others - for pain, for blood loss, for infection, for fever. Jaskier must’ve spilled some when he gave them to him.

He must’ve known what he was doing to pick them all, and from a mess of spilled mixes no less, and something tugs at Geralt’s heart.

“I don’t do- _this_ ,” he mumbles into his skin, his own hand motioning between them uselessly. “I can’t. It only breeds pain and misery, witcher’s life is no safer than candle’s light in the eye of a cyclone and nobody deserves it. I could die any day, I could hurt you so much without ever meaning to, but I want to- I need your- I’ve never-”

“Shhh...” Jaskier’s fingers stroke his cheek and glacier of his eyes is melting over his cheeks, bright blue soft and _loving_. “I knew it was a shitty job in a Dol Blathanna, you know. Never stopped me till-” he stops himself, biting his lip before licking it and Geralt can’t look away. “Only you did.” he finishes, quietly.

Geralt shudder and clings to his hand, holding it to his face and peppering his palm with kisses. It’s easier than he expected, all this affection, but it’s equally more nerve-wracking.

“Never again,” he whispers. “I’d rather die than push you away again... I can swear on whatever you wish.”

Jaskier rubs at his eye with a free hand and shakes his head.

“I thought we agreed to _no dying_ , you idiot.” he chuckles and Geral relaxes a little, humming.

He still has no idea what Jaskier sees in him. It’s enough that’s he does and allows him to stay.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to waste all this work.” he reaches with a free hand to bandages over his chest and stomach.

The thick thread, the clumsy knots, the ragged edges.

The memories of agony and dark and shaking fits.

“I didn’t deserve it,” he whispers, letting Jaskier’s hand go. “You would’ve been right to leave me to die.”

Jaskier shrugs and puts the almost forgotten box of supplies to the side before pushing Geralt onto the furs. He lays by his side again, head on Geralt’s chest and craned back so they still look at each other. Witcher’s arms sneak around his waist almost on his own and the small, content sigh sends a pleasant shiver down his spine

“Probably. Good thing I’m so rarely _right_ , isn’t it?” he’s joking, but Geralt still frowns at the shame flitting through his scent.

There’s a mountain of issues piled between them and he might as well start going through them.

“You recognized the cockatrice cuts and venom.” he reminds Jaskier, trailing fingers along his spine. “You learned my potions, you stitched me up, you subdued me in fever and delirium.” he can feel the bard squirm and he takes a breath to force his body to stay relaxed despite it.

He barely started fixing things between them and he has no idea when- _if_ Jaskier would ever want to bed him. He’s probably in no shape to even try, so it’s best to just ignore it for now.

It would help if Jaskier did share his sentiment and his scent wasn’t spicing up with arousal, but he dealt with worse.

“You managed to secure yourself a protected place in a pack of werewolves as you were _bleeding out_. You did everything right, Jaskier.” he finishes, a little lightheaded with Jaskier’s scent, but adamant to keep things clean, at least for now. Even if he has to grab at Jaskier’s wandering hands before they pass too low on his stomach.

He doesn’t think bard would understand him, he’s not sure if he’d ever be able to explain it without choking on guilt, so he uses the one argument that’s purely logical:

“Pureblood werwolves. Bena smelt you from outside before I ever did. They’ll hear everything.”

Jaskier snorts, his warm breath ghosting over Geralt’s chest and bringing out goosebumps on his skin. His hand twisted around, finger stroking at witcher’s wrist, finding out a pulse so quick it’s almost human and stroking along a small scar there.

“Geralt, I’ve seen the birth of the litter that used you as a furnace for their nap today and at least _three attempts_ at conceiving another one.” he explains, all faux mocking and condescension. “I’m pretty sure no variant of the word _shame_ exists as even the barest of concepts in their language, either the barks or butchering of the common." he stops for a little and then his smile turns cocky, his free hand brushing at Gerat’s thigh and he can’t really choose pushing it away over holding Jaskier close. When the bard speaks again, his voice is smooth as silk: “Wouldn’t be the first time _I performed in front of an audience_ , you know, but I understand if you’re a little shy, my witcher-”

Geralt growls at the mere thought and bites roughly at his skin, right under the scar from a butchered throat-cutting. He’s soothing it with licks and kisses as soon as Jaskier gasps, but then bard is squiring and he growls again.

He can’t really see himself saying _no_ outright, too afraid he won’t get them another chance, so he’s selfish and starts counting down:

“Few bruised ribs,” he whispers into Jaskier’s skin, kisses trailing along his arm and clavicle, the linen shirt clearly meant for a broader frame and easily moved away. “Dozen cuts. Broken leg. Bite still healing. Dehydra-”

“Fine!” Jaskier’s tone is biting, but his hands move to tangle in Geralt’s hair. “Can’t blame me, you know. Never even answered me, can’t blame a man for trying to find _some_ proof, you know...” he trails off with a sigh, fingers pulling at Geralt’s hair who only hums, closing his eyes.

He should probably stop the kisses, but he can’t bring himself to do it when Jaskier’s turning his head away and gives his access, but then the words register and he feels like dumped into a frozen lake.

“I do.” his teeth find a crock of bard’s neck and leave another mark there. “I want you. I need you. I love you.” he bites the words into Jaskier’s skin as he shivers and gasps, before his lips trail along the scar on his neck and up, nose brushing against the skin as he inhales deep, getting drunk of sharp spices and sweetness of love, like breathing in a cloud of ground pepper and powdered sugar.

He never wants Jaskier to smell of anything else again. Maybe more like _him,_ but he squashes that thought down, for now.

He looks into the blue, blue eyes and just hopes they’re glassy from _something good_ , for once. When Jaskier grabs his hair again to pull him into a kiss, a curious tongue licking at his dry lips, he decides he must be right.

They stay like that for a while. The spice slowly leaves Jaskier’s scent, leaving only the sweetness that should be cloying, but feels more like a fresh fruit juice spilled over. Geralt’s half-way to getting absolutely addicted already and shudders at the thought of ever losing it again.

His lips trail the scar on bard’s neck for what feels like the hundredth time and he can feel Jaskier’s laugh under his tongue.

“Mhh, too bad djinn left no scar. Might’ve been doing it for a decade.” he jokes and Geralt tenses, frowning.

Was it already a decade? It was before Calanthe’s ball, but how long ago was that? He thought it wasn’t yet a year since he last saw Jaskier, but there are new wrinkles at his face and all of a sudden he isn’t so sure.

How much time did he miss?

He feels like a child, clutching fistfuls of sand and seeing it slip between his finger, and he can’t breathe-

He grunts at a hair pull that’s just on the edge of pain and pointedly ignores the shiver it sends down his spine to instead glare at Jaskier questioningly.

“Yeah, scary face. Never worked on me _before_ , darling, and it won’t now.” he reminds him with an amused grin and Geralt ignores the way such silly word makes him want to melt onto the furs.

“Don’t joke about it!” he’s hissing, fingers hovering above the scar, but not quite touching. “Not about-“ he words like _pain_ and _death_ get lost in his throat, so he just repeats weakly: “Not this. Never this, Jaskier- please.”

Jaskier sighs, but gives a nod before cuddling up to him again, his fingers playing with witcher’s hair as Geralt strokes his back.

There are bits of thoughts fleeting through his mind – djinns, magic, mages and potions, other methods to prolong life. Most of them use to backfire or require cost he’d never make Jaskier pay, but some just need luck and persistence and knowledge.

He might miss the first one, but he has enough of the rest to make it work.

Anything to keep Jaskier with him, because the thought of the world without him hit him like an ocean and he realizes that _no_ , he won’t let it come to pass.

Ever.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt only kinda-connects this time, but a migrane kicked my ass and I'm trying to complete the week.


End file.
